Put a Name on It
by RamblingPug
Summary: ' "You'd make a good shoujo manga heroine, Satsuki," she teases, "You've got the pout down to perfection." ' A short peak into the love story of Shishio and the new girl, Samejima. Warning : Adult themes.


**Put a name on it **

**Pairing : Shishio Satsuki x Samejima (hirunaka no ryuusei) **

**Rating : M (for some hinted intimacy) **

**A/N : **We know basically nothing about the new girl, Samejima, not even her first name lol, so I have taken a lot of liberties with her character. This is written almost entirely from Shishio's point of view.

The doors of his veranda slide open, making the obvious click noise that rusty aluminium sliding doors are prone to making and he hears the soft pit-pat of bare feet trying to be discreet, slip across his tiled flooring. The cold midnight air bites across the back of his neck and he shivers because he isn't wearing anything other than a pair of loose fitting track pants, but he fixes his eyes on the sequence of black and white on his laptop screen.

There was a time he'd get jittery hearing small, creepy noises in his house but lately this was something he had gotten used to. After all, there was only one person who would abuse neighbourly privileges often enough to jump into his veranda and casually walk into his living room at this time of night.

"Drinking alone, eh?" Comes the voice of this intruder, wrapping her arms around him from behind and reaching for the glass.

"I'm busy," he says curtly, stilling her hand and snatching his glass of whiskey back, "Can't you see?"

She walks around the kitchen counter to stand right in front of him, scrutinizing the bottle of alcohol in front of him.

"I can see that," she murmurs sarcastically, as he keeps his eyes firmly fixated on the screen, pointedly ignoring her. "You'd make a good shoujo manga heroine, Satsuki," she teases, "You've got the pout down to perfection."

"Shut up," he mutters, displeased with her choice of words, because grown men like him didn't pout, they only _scowled_. "Besides, what are you doing at this time of the night at your _'neighbour's_' house?"

She sighs at his pointed emphasis, because it isn't fair for him to blame her, she had just reacted instinctively, saying the safest thing that had come to her mind. She hadn't known how to react to her mother's surprise visit, much less her inquisitive questions about the 'handsome' man next door, who had just come home to 'return something'.

"I did tell her we were friends, you know. Later." Because she was pretty sure the term 'casual sex' did not exist in her mother's conservative lexicon.

"_Friends_?" He knows it's wrong, the way he spits out the word, like it's a dirty, living thing, but he's a little bit drunk and he knows it's the very antithesis of what he wants out of this relationship. Because he's thirty fucking three, he's far too old to play this constant limbo, skittering away from giving this _thing_, that they had, a name.

All he knows is that the last thing he needs is another friend, he wants much, _much_ more than that.

"Well, what did you want me to say to her? Hello mother, meet Satsuki, the man whose bed I sleep in more often than my own?!"

He lifts his gaze up to look at her, verdant eyes flaring because she didn't have to put it _that_ way, like their interaction was based off of nothing more than the illicit debauchery of straying hands and mouths in the dark, merely playing at the concept of intimacy with an empty non commitment.

Except that's pretty much all it was, all it had started out to be and at the rate they were going, it was all it would ever be.

It's stupid, he thinks, as he watches her effortlessly navigating his kitchen and fishing out a glass for herself, that here they were, so comfortable in each other's space, still far too hesitant to give this relationship a name.

It's even stupider, he thinks, that instead of saying anything he snatches the glass away, pressing her against the kitchen counter and capturing her lips in a hard kiss. Somewhere inside it hurts him that she so readily responds, drinking up his whiskey tainted mouth in a way, that he has, by now, realised is a far more potent addiction. Strangely, it stings that she's shown up here in nothing more than his old t shirt – literally nothing more, he realizes as his hands claim their territory - her intentions vividly clear.

Because even though he is so caught up in her sweet, hazed rapture, every touch, every flick of her tongue only emphasises the feeling that he's being _used_.

But who is he to complain when he's doing the same damn thing, using _her_, her body, the illusion of her intimacy to quell a deep frustration, a need for companionship.

What he had failed to realise is that somewhere, in this ritualistic dance of intimate possession, he had begun to wish for this illusion to turn into reality.

Maybe she realises after all that her words have hurt him, that the superficial depth of their actions wounds him, because she surrenders under his bruising touch, each sigh a placation to his restless mind.

He wonders if she thinks this way too, because he knows she is no different from him, that what drew them together in the first place was the worst kind of emptiness blanketed under the ready excuse of alcohol. He had long since accepted it, but of late, this had become more than just a twisted sort of therapy for him, it had turned into a desperate need to take _her_ pain away.

Later, after having lost themselves in the heat of each other's bodies, she curls into him, threading her fingers into his hair, slowly massaging his scalp in deliberate, almost apologetic circles. It's blissful and relaxing and he can't help but drift off into sleep but the words he doesn't say float heavily in his mind. He doesn't want her apologies, he wants _her_, her feelings, the thoughts behind her clever mask of sarcasm, the wounds she never talks about but he knows are still open and smarting, he wants _everything_.

He wakes up when she does, an obvious consequence of moving perfectly in tune with her body, clearly reading her stretches.

"It's five thirty," she says softly, because she can tell when he's awake too. "Time to sneak back home before my mother wakes up." He lets her weave her way out of his embrace, because holding her back after their playtime was a privilege he desperately wanted but did not have.

Thankfully, this time the early morning melancholy is accompanied with a moment of clarity, a fleeting whisper from the past, a piece of advice Tsubomi had once given him.

'You need to look past your pride.'

He'd like to think it's this sound decision-making that makes him finally speak up, conveying the smallest iota of feeling that he has begun to nurture in his heart.

"Samejima." His fingers tug on hers just as she is about to slip off the bed, but she doesn't know if it's this that stills her or the delicious way he says her name, gentle and serious, like she actually means something to him.

"Yes?"

"Tell her…" he says hesitantly, but it's not just her mother he wants to tell, he wants to say it to anyone and everyone that actually cares to ask, "Tell her, that I'm your lover."

**A/N : I hope this isn't too confusing or too immoral… in my mind, these two have a somewhat unconventional, twisted sort of start to their relationship. **

**I'll probably write another one to make things clearer. **

**I don't know how many people are even into this ship but.. If you're reading this, tell me what you think? :)**


End file.
